


We're all soldiers

by TheKats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Couch Cuddles, Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Trans Character, Trans Sherlock, bit angsty in the first half, but John is very supportive, trans!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9910571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKats/pseuds/TheKats
Summary: After a nasty case left them wounded, John discovers Sherlock is a transman.To Sherlock's great relief, however, John doesn't mind at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrtnfrmn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrtnfrmn/gifts).



> A wise person said yesterday, that there aren't enough trans!fics and they're right.  
> So there you go.  
> I doubt that there won't be more from me in the future ;)

Sherlock's voice was demanding, panting, breathless and weak, but with a force of will as if he could make it so with just his words. “Are you alright?!”  
  
John was holding his ribcage, the wind equally knocked out of him as it was for Sherlock. His face was screwed up, part in pain, but mainly in irritation.”Yeah!” He made it sound like it was the most obvious fact in the world. Maybe it was to a doctor, but Sherlock couldn't help himself. “What is that?”  
  
Sherlock looked down at where his hand was pressing against his stab wound, his white shirt soaking up the blood, making it look more dramatic than strictly necessary. He shook his head, waving his other hand dismissively. “It's fine. I'll clean it when we get home, bit of dressing. Had worse.”  
He meant for it to be soothing, but clearly John was not satisfied, though he didn't argue for now. Lestrade, as ever called late to the action, took the three criminals off their hands and, thanks to John's skills in doctorly persuasion, let them leave with the agreement to come in for statements the next morning.  
  
They rode the cab back home in silence, but it wasn't the usual, easy silence, which spoke for itself. This was tense and John's body language suggested he was in army doctor mode; quite nervously so. He was tense and his leg restless, one hand drumming a silent rhythm on his knee.  
John was practically marching inside and up the stairs to the flat, his own pains apparent in the slight limping and swaying.  
Sherlock gripped the banister, if only to give some venting to the pain, and when he arrived upstairs, John had already removed his jacket. Noises were coming from the bathroom, no doubt John was getting his kit, as Sherlock peeled out of his coat, wincing when the movement stretched his flesh around the wound. He hissed as he peeled his shirt away from the wound, sticking to the coagulating blood.

That was when John came back into the room, his own shirt open over the white vest he wore. He had apparently checked for bruising where he'd earlier held his ribs.  
“Are you sure you're fine?” Sherlock's question was not a doubt of John's judgement, but rather of the possible misplacement of his pride.  
  
John pursed his lips briefly. “Yeah, nothing broken, just a little cracked. Will be fine. Let me take a look at that, please.” With his words, John approached him, and while Sherlock knew he only meant well, it felt a little like pushing some boundaries he hadn't been aware of himself.  
  
“Really, it's fine. No need for any of,” he indicated the kit with his hand, “that.” John had treated wounds on him before and there had been casual touches more than a few times between them. However, and Sherlock was certain that it was the source of his nervousness, John had never touched nor seen that general area of Sherlock's torso. And he wasn't sure he was quite ready to share that with John just yet. Or ever.  
He liked John, adored him, loved him, if you'd ask a romantic, and, judging by all the information John more or less openly provided him, that sentiment did not run just one way, but there was a barrier he felt panicked to even touch with another human being. It was the same barrier that kept him from approaching the subject of romantic feelings with John.  
  
The doctor frowned at him, clearly confused by his behaviour. He wasn't stupid, bless him, this wasn't his 'Sherlock you are being unnecessarily complicated and irritatingly proud' face. This was the face John made when he suspected a reason beyond his grasp and knowledge. He was intrigued, but uncertain if he should ask about it. “Something the matter?”  
Sherlock wanted to answer, but he wasn't sure what answer would convince John without being a blatant lie. John spoke again before he could reply. “Sherlock, it looked quite bad. It might need stitches. Do you want another doctor to take a look at it, should we go to the hospital?”  
  
Sherlock wanted to smother John with useless affection for his display of honest concern and his willingness to put Sherlock's needs and wishes before his own ego. “You're not the problem, John.” He had aimed for something that would reassure John on more than one level, giving him reason not to pursue the topic any further, but he had failed very obviously.  
  
John shook his head. “I don't get it, then.” His eyes fell to were the blood-stained shirt hung limply, released by Sherlock's fingers as soon as with John's first words. “Really, I just want to make sure it won't be a problem... Do you. I mean, is it...” John seemed unable to finish his sentence, though his thoughts seemed to have a very good and precise objective in this.  
  
Sherlock could guess what it might be. “No, it's not. Well, it is in a way.” He sighed, not knowing how to convey his issue on this matter. “Fine, but...” The rest went unsaid, but was heard all the same. He rolled the hem of his shirt back up just enough to show John the wound. The doctor looked into his face to seek his final consent and Sherlock nodded before looking away. It would, no doubt, have been easier if Sherlock was sitting down, but his legs felt too stiff to move and John didn't want to push him in an already uncomfortable situation like this. He was kneeling in front of Sherlock, nudging his hands up a little more as he tried to work, but the fists were blocking the light and hindering John's movements.  
  
“Can you-?” John asked, but Sherlock was quick to answer.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Please, Sherlock, I can't work like this.. At least lay down on the sofa?” John tried very hard to keep his irritation out of his voice and be gentle. Sherlock in return tried not to feel like he was pushing him.  
“I'm a doctor, I see bare chests on a daily basis. There's nothing I haven't seen, Sherlock... I won't be appalled by a third nipple or a caved-in chest or whatever.” It was reassuring and at the same time, it wasn't. Sherlock wasn't trying to hide a pectus excavatum, he was trying to hide something he'd kept secret from anyone who wasn't his family, something you weren't born with. “And confidentiality applies as well. Not that I would have told anyone anything you didn't want to share anyway..”  
He let go of his shirt and took hesitant steps towards the leather couch. Usually, he would flop down onto it in a big sulk, but he was painfully aware of his wound in that moment.  
Flat on his back, he looked beyond uncomfortable rolling his shirt back up. In order for none of it or his hands to be in the way, he had go past his point of comfort and he was torn between looking away and searching John's face for any form of reaction.  
There was a brief flicker of understanding in John's eyes, but nothing more. He reached for Sherlock's wrists, far enough away from the scars and motioned for him to pull down again. “Here, why don't you just undo the lower buttons? You won't have to hold the shirt and I won't see anything.” The care with which John said these words made Sherlock well up with warmth and gratitude. He unbuttoned his shirt until just below his chest. It fell open to his sides and revealed his stomach and the wound, keeping his scars hidden. John said nothing, just quietly cleaned the area. Sherlock tried to suppress any urges to flinch at the pain of the alcohol being rubbed, almost like silk, over his skin, but it stung badly. John inspected the cleaned wound with some gauze in his hand, absorbing any new blood that welled up as he took in the damage.  
“Yes, this definitely needs stitches.” He carefully moved the skin around, looking at the cut edges and how it would line up when put back together. “I can do it here, if you want to. I've got some stuff for small stitching. Otherwise I'll have to call an ambulance.. Your call.”  
  
Sherlock observed John's face. He was giving him the decision. It wasn't about anything other than the wound and he couldn't say how grateful he was if he wanted to. “You do it.”  
He trusted John. Had trusted him from their very first case together. The possible reaction to his scars was beyond trust, however and he was in awe seeing how John didn't care in the least to even mention it any further.  
  
John did what he did, warning him about the pinches of the needle where he injected some numbing Sherlock watched best he could from his angle and when John was done, wound dressed and all to protect from scratching, pulling and chafing, he squeezed Sherlock's arm before bringing his kit back into the bathroom. He came back with Sherlock favourite ragged shirt. The one he mostly wore for sleeping and sulking.  
“Just figured you might want to put on something clean.” He also left a strip of painkillers on the coffee table and then left for the kitchen, giving Sherlock privacy and filling the kettle with water. By the time tea was ready, Sherlock had turned on his unharmed side and faced the wall.  
John laid a hand on his shoulder and put down a mug on the table. “Do you want to talk?” His question was very carefully voiced. Sherlock really didn't, but he supposed he would have to sooner or later, so he shrugged.  
“Do you feel ashamed of them? Or were you scared that I might insult you and run out of here?”  
  
“Transphobia isn't that uncommon, John, you can't blame me for being.. cautious.” His voice wasn't accusing. He sought understanding.  
  
He wished he'd never had reason to doubt John. “I don't blame you. I just want you to know that I don't have a problem with it. Not everyone does. Besides, I'm not a perfect man, either, who am I to judge your scars? I've got my own.”  
  
“You were a soldier.”  
  
“Aren't we all, in a way?” Sherlock turned his head around. No doubt John was about to be romantic at him now, not that he really minded. “We all fight our own battles and we all carry the scars. You're no lesser man than me because of anything that was in your past or the way your body looks.”  
There was a kindness and honesty in John's eyes, that rarely anyone ever saw on him. Sherlock had seen it before, but it had never affected him like this. He whispered a soft 'thank you' and John smiled. “Don't worry,” he replied.  
“Tea?” He indicated the mug with a look and Sherlock sat up, taking it from John's offering hand.  
  
“I might as well tell you,” Sherlock began, feeling brave in this moment, but then hesitating again. He couldn't take back that bit and he doubted John would push him if he didn't say any more, bu he felt ridiculous about it. “I'm also homosexual.” He sounded almost defensive.  
  
John smiled again and licked his lips, considering what to say next. “Dinner?”

 

 

Sherlock blinked grumpily against the sun shining right in his face. They'd fallen asleep on the sofa, cuddled up, watching something he didn't care to remember. John's arm was still around his waist and he buried his face deeper into the wool of his jumper, listening to his heartbeat. Like this, he liked to reflect everything that was happening around them, listening to the traffic outside, Mrs Hudson downstairs and John's watch next to him. He smelled the dust of the flat, their food, the books and the wood. He smelled John, felt his solid, warm weight against himself and his chest rise and fall beneath his cheek. He idly traced the line on his abdomen, a scar long gone white, still visible, but it didn't bother him. It was just another one. He had come out to some people, his friends, and was glad to see none of them seemed bothered. He didn't mind his scars as much any more either. They were there like John's was on his shoulder and the smaller, more plentiful ones on his back. He'd cared less and less every time John had kissed around his chest. He didn't avoid them and didn't pay them any extra attention. They were just scars – lines on his body.  
He looked into John's face and kissed his cheek, a sigh rising from the other's throat. John stirred, arching his back to ease some of the stiffness and failing, grimacing as he nuzzled into Sherlock's curls. He fumbled for the remote and turned off the television. Then he glanced at his watch and groaned.  
“It's not even seven and I'm tired,” he complained.

 

Sherlock shuffled as close as he could get, tightening his own embrace around John to the point where John had to slap his arm lightly because it hurt. He made a noise of protest, but loosened his embrace nonetheless. The slapping turned into caresses.  
“We should play something.”  
  
John thought for a moment. “Okay. Twenty Questions. I'll think of something first.”  
  
“Sex.”  
  
John giggled. “Hehe, no. Nineteen.”  
  
Sherlock hummed, his tone amused. “That's a first. Hmm. Animal, plant, theme or object?”  
  
“Object. Eighteen.”  
  
“Inside a building, outside or on a person?”  
  
John's fingertips glid up and down Sherlock's back. “Inside. Seventeen.”  
  
“Can it be used as a murder weapon?” Sherlock asked, humming at John's touch.  
  
A chuckle sneaked itself into John's breath. “Not unless you count dropping it. Sixteen.”  
  
“Dropping it, so it can crush someone with its weight-”  
  
“Okay, different game, please!” John moaned, though he sounded amused. “Is there any game you can play without being a smart-arse?”  
  
Sherlock gave an offended groan and John kissed his ear with a grin. “Rude.” he rumbled against the other, but there was not bite in his voice.  
They stayed on the sofa, cuddling, breathing, enjoying each others' presence. Before long Sherlock was lost in the depth of his mind, but not to solve a puzzle. It was the part of his mind palace that harboured calming thoughts and memories. This combined with John's affections was a state he could enjoy for hours on end without ever feeling the need to move or take action.  
  
It was no exaggeration, this had actually happened before, though John had been asleep in bed at the time. Now, he was nudged and protested being ripped out of his safe-haven.  
“Sherlock, I need to pee.” It was a blunt statement  
  
“Romantic.” He rolled into the crevice between John and the back of the sofa, which also shoved John further to the edge of it until he had to get up in order to not fall.  
“Come back when you're done.”  
  
John leaned down and kissed him. He whispered before he left. “How about you come to bed? More space. Blanket and pillows.”  
  
In an instant, Sherlock sat upright and set to follow John's direction. “I'll put on my pyjamas.”

 


End file.
